45*21

all ideas encapsulated in this grain of sand
where's the thing? is it slight of hand?
the mirage is all we see & when frustrated
many doors appear a pear given to an apple
an oriental as in relation to the occidental
more or less the same trick but one involves a smoking pipe
dazzle the community with your chest
Mr. Wu Ling are you not a disguise?
a many frustrated game of monopoly
or mono play a gross infraction in tweed
make no account of dispensary a rather hothead cackle
many b-l-a-c-k penguins in a sea of white
you are suggestible by lead pipe
maybe because I don't huff and puff over the dice
a dry sherry, thank you
for half a century men have gone and died
theirs was arrangements to meet the bull
we scream at the dead and headless
and he was stabbed in the back you say
the sand grows into the sun and the sand is on the sun
a funny thing of death becoming life and the opposite